


Crazy-Wall Clues

by Zingiber



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, One Word Prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-03-19 20:45:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18978025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zingiber/pseuds/Zingiber
Summary: Fifty short stories based on randomly-generated word prompts.  Mostly Johnlock fluff.  Rating subject to change.





	1. Purring

**Author's Note:**

> This series is based off of a list of randomly-generated word prompts. Ideally, this will update every other day, but some updates may take longer for Real Life reasons. Rating and tags will be updated as the series progresses. 
> 
> The chapters in this series are disconnected from one another, i.e. they do not follow the same story unless I specify they do. 
> 
> These will also be posted on my Tumblr, zingiberis.tumblr.com.

The first time John hears it, he is so mired in exhaustion he thinks his imagination is playing tricks on him.

Sitting on the sofa, boneless with exhaustion, John tips his head back and sighs.  They’ve just finished a long, grueling case – a prominent politician’s wife kidnapped, a series of threatening letters and severed fingers – preceded by a marathon of shifts at the clinic when one of John’s coworkers took maternity leave. All is well now.  The politician’s wife is safe, all ten fingers and toes intact, the threats having been stolen from a morgue.  John wants nothing more than to fall asleep and hibernate for ten years or so.  He doesn’t think Sherlock will mind if he uses the sofa.  If he has to conduct any experiments, he can use John’s chest as a benchtop.

A soft grunt tugs John from his musings.  The sofa dips as a warm weight settles on the cushions, pressed flush against him from hip to shoulder.  Sherlock leans his head on John’s shoulder, his entire body wilting with a sigh. John scrunches his nose as wayward strands of hair threaten to make him sneeze.  “Hmm.  Hullo, you.”

“No talking,” Sherlock mumbles.  “No thinking.  Tired.”

“You smell like formalin.”  John sniffs once for good measure and frowns.  “Do you know, I don’t mind it.”

Sherlock hums, the low noise vibrating through his body to resonate into John.  “Bit weird.”

“Mm.  Yeah.”

They sit in silence for a few heartbeats, taking in the quiet of the flat, the hush of still waters after an ocean storm.  Sherlock shifts in wordless demand and John raises his arm.  He feels Sherlock move to lie down on his side, his cheek pillowed on John’s thigh.  John settles a hand into the coarse thicket of his hair, fingers gently weaving through curls.  It’s nice, this.  Really nice.

A sleepy fog gathers around John’s senses, swaddles them in wool.  He is just properly beginning to drift off when he feels it: a tremor, building deep within Sherlock to climb up his fingertips.  He stills, eyes flickering open.  Worry nibbles at him.  “All right?”

The tremor halts.  For a moment, Sherlock is silent.  Then, with the slightest prickle of impatience, he says, “Don’t stop.”

“You were shaking.”

“I was _not._   Now, get on with it.”

There is no real venom behind the words, so John rolls his eyes in weary resignation.  “Right. Don’t work yourself into a snit.” But he continues his ministrations, fingernails gently scraping the scalp in mute reprimand.

The tremor returns instantly, accompanied by a hum and—oh, oh, it _isn’t_ a hum, it isn’t at all.  John’s weariness vanishes and he sits upright, an irrepressible smile tugging at his lips.  “Oh, Sherlock.”

 _“What.”_ Holding onto his temper by the ends of his fingernails. 

John can’t keep the grin from his voice.  “You’re purring, love.”

Sherlock goes utterly still.  Then he bolts upright like a cat that’s just been doused with cold water.  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You are,” John says, biting his lip.  “You were.”

Sherlock scoffs, his face screwed up in disdain.  “I wasn’t.”

“Um.  You were. Rather adorably, too.”

Sherlock swings his legs off the sofa and wobbles to his feet, face scarlet. It never fails to amaze John, these little glimpses beyond the cold, hard exterior.  Sherlock won’t so much as blink at a mutilated corpse, but the accusation of something so base – so _animal –_ as purring has him flustered in seconds flat.  The sight lifts John’s heart into his throat. 

“Come back,” he says, patting the cooling space beside him.  “I want to see if you’ll do it again.”

“You—you’re mocking me,” Sherlock splutters.

“No,” John corrects mildly, “just a little teasing.”

Sherlock scowls, though the blush has yet to vanish.  “You’re sleep deprived.  Clearly it’s addled your mind.”  He spins around and stalks toward his – _their –_ bedroom.  “I’m going to bed.  You can join me when you’ve regained your senses.”

John can’t suppress his laugh as Sherlock disappears down the corridor, the door snapping shut behind him.  They are scant months into this new arrangement, but already he has mapped the hair-thin boundaries between real anger and tetchy humiliation – between _leave me alone_ and _follow me, you great lout._  

John braces hands on knees and stands, stretching to ease the cricks from his bones.  He follows, still fighting the smile.  Safe in the dark of their bedroom, ensconced away from light and reality, he’s determined to make Sherlock purr.


	2. Argue

Sherlock rolls his eyes so far back, he fancies he catches a glimpse of his own brain.  “For God’s sake, John, I’ve explained this a dozen times.  Surely you’ve grasped it by now.”

John, face haggard and eyes bloodshot, bristles.  “Clearly I haven’t.”

Sherlock lengthens his stride, eager to get back to 221B as quickly as possible.  They have just concluded a long, challenging case – a spat between barristers gone murderous – and, despite having solved it in his usual brilliant fashion, Sherlock feels deflated.  John has been peevish the entire time.  He visited his sister yesterday, ready to celebrate one month of sobriety, only to discover she had relapsed again.  He grumbled through the entirety of the case, moody and glowering and tight-lipped with his praise. 

Which is to say, he didn’t praise Sherlock at all.   

“The wigs,John,” Sherlock says, exasperated.  “Think of the wigs.  The discoloration suggested mold, but the antifungal shampoo was in Laurence’s loo, not Carson’s—”

John scrubs a hand over his brow, mussing his unwashed hair.  “So, Carson steals Laurence’s girlfriend’s overnight bag, intending to plant the poisoned shampoo—”

“No, no, _no!”_ Sherlock exclaims.  “Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve said? The shampoo wasn’t poisoned.  It was obviously the skin cream!”

John throws up his hands, the rotted timbers of his temper collapsing under an avalanche of fury.  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, what do you want?  A bloody medal?  Congratulations, Sherlock, you’ve left us all in the dust again!  Is that what you want to hear?”

Sherlock blinks.  For a single heartbeat, his irritation evaporates and shame rushes in to fill the space.  Then he rallies, falling back on his tried-and-true defense:  scorn. “There’s no need to pitch a fit.”

“Don’t act like I’m the one being childish.  You prance around all your cases—”

“I do not _prance—”_

“—showing off without giving a flying fuck for who you’re trampling on, and yes, you absolutely fucking do—”

“I’m not the one raving like a madman in a public street!”

“No, you just carry bloody harpoons on the Tube and fire guns in the middle of Belgravia!  Of course, how silly of me!  That’s nowhere near as inappropriate as shouting!” John shouts.

“I said ‘raving,’ not ‘shouting!’” Sherlock shouts back.  In the periphery of his vision, he notes the wary looks of passers-by, but he can’t be arsed to care.  “And those were all for cases!  They help the Work!”  He draws up to his full height, glowering down his nose at John.  “Which is more than I can say for you!”

John’s nostril twitches with an angry sniff.  “If I’m so useless, stop asking me to join you on cases!”

Sherlock swallows back the immediate, desperate reply that rises to his lips:  _No, please don’t, I need you with me._ He musters every scrap of rage he has built during their argument and bellows, “Maybe I will!”

If Sherlock imagines a flicker of hurt in John’s eyes, it is quickly steamrolled by the momentum of his own anger.  “Good!  Then I won’t have to spend every waking moment with an insufferable wankstain like you!”

It is only then, casting thoughtlessly about for the doorknob, that Sherlock realizes they are standing on the stoop of 221B.  His thoughts screech to a halt.  He stares.  “What?”

John stares back with a mortified sort of shock.  He recovers, sets his jaw.  “I—I said I didn’t have to—”

“Did you just call me a—”  A giggle bubbles up from Sherlock’s chest, surprising him.  “A _wankstain?”_

John bites the inside of his cheek.  He’s infected by the same lunacy swiftly overcoming Sherlock, a contagion transmuting rage into hysterical relief.  “Yes.  Yes, I did.”

“Honestly, John,” Sherlock says, chuckling, fighting back the urge to dissolve into gales of laughter.  “Really? I thought—I thought you were a grown man, not…”

“Yeah, yeah,” John says, his aggrieved look belied by giggles.  “I—I suppose it’s because…”  He kneads fingertips against his temples, a grin stretching across his face.  “Because you’re so bloody _cocky_ all the time.”

It isn’t that funny.  In fact, it’s distinctly un-funny.  But Sherlock doubles over, clutching his belly as his chuckles boil into gales of laughter.  It’s because he’s with John, and everything with John is absurd and nonsensical and _perfect._

“Stop, stop,” John gasps through his own giggles.  “We can’t laugh on the doorstep of our home.  We look like complete nutters.”

Sherlock perks up.  “That reminds me.”  He shoves a hand into one of the inner pockets of his Belstaff and draws out a squashed barrister’s wig.  He presents it with a flourish.  “For you.”

And then it is John’s turn to burst into howls of laughter, drawing every eye on the street.  Sherlock doesn’t care.  He watches John, grinning so hard his face hurts.  Wiping tears from his eyes, John takes the offering.  “What prompted this?”

“Thought it would make you laugh.”

The words are out before Sherlock can catch them.  John goes still.  Sherlock averts his gaze. 

After a tense moment, John coughs out another chuckle.  “Well.  Mission accomplished, I suppose.”

“Of course,” Sherlock manages, voice a trifle hoarse.  He turns the knob and pushes open the door, gesturing for John to enter.  “After you.”

With a bemused smile, John walks inside, still studying the wig.  “This hasn’t got mold in it, has it?”

Laughing, Sherlock follows, closing the door behind him. 


	3. Cheerful

For all Sherlock’s whinging, Greg Lestrade is not, in fact, an idiot.  He’s actually quite sharp when he has to be.  The position of Detective Inspector didn’t just fall into his lap. It’s only when Greg is well and truly stumped that he’ll call in Sherlock, and even then, it’s a toss-up as to whether the little snot will deign to put on trousers and grace them with his presence.

No, when it comes down to it, Greg is actually a bloody good detective.  He’s got one of the best solve rates in the Met, and he’s handled some pretty high-profile cases.  He dealt with the Waters family without Sherlock’s help.  He knows a clue when he sees it. 

The clues now aren’t so much as _visible_ as _bludgeoning him over the head with their blatant disregard for subtlety_. Greg resists the urge to roll his eyes and turns his focus back to the body at his feet.  A middle-aged man, garroted so viciously there are wire-notches on the front of his spine.  Despite the messy crime scene, they haven’t found a trace of evidence.  Hence, Sherlock Holmes has been summoned.

His Nibs and John have only been at the crime scene for ten minutes and already Greg regrets inviting them. 

First off, they keep _looking at each other._ After performing a basic examination, John stands back, giving Sherlock room to scour the body for clues like a vulture picking over carrion.  John watches the detective work with a goofy sort of grin, head cocked and eyes soft. 

Sherlock stands, wincing, and clicks shut his magnifier.  “The murderer used a length of piano wire made from a steel iron alloy.  The serrations in the spine are quite distinct.  Piano wire is typically made strictly from steel; the alloy is unusual. We simply need to find where it was made and trace the killer from there.”

“Brilliant.”  John says the word like a prayer.  “You’re just… brilliant, you know.”

Sherlock flushes a delicate shade of pink.  “Thank you, John.”

Greg flicks his eyes from Sherlock to John.  Something has changed between them.  The yearning looks are nothing new; Greg is used to the mutual pining, has learned to dismiss it as white noise.  Donovan and Anderson and the others have bets on how long the two have been shagging, but Greg’s never pitched in.  He knows the difference between resignation and anticipation. It’s the bold-inked line between _I can never have you_ and _I can’t wait to have you again._

If John or Sherlock have ever looked at one another and thought the latter, Greg will swallow his ID badge whole.  It’s a bit sad, considering everything they’ve been through, but there it is.

Until now.

Greg scribbles in his notepad and sticks the pen in his mouth, chewing on the cap.  Something has definitely changed – the tension between Sherlock and John, always as thick and fever-hot as the air before a storm, has… cleared.  The looks they share are lighter, the smiles easier.  Suspicion niggles at Greg.  _What…_

Sherlock steps away from the corpse to let Donovan take over.  He moves to stand before John, a smile playing about his mouth.  John’s eyes dart to his lips and he mirrors the smile.  His lower lip catches under his teeth.  Raising a hand, he rubs the back of his neck, moving the collar of his button-up just enough so the corner of a bruise peeks out.

Greg nearly chokes on his pen.  _Oh.  Oh!_

Shoving the notepad in his pocket, Greg strides over to Sherlock and John. “Gotta chat.  C’mon.”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow.  “Surely whatever you’ve got to say can be said here.  Unless you’re worried about dumbfounding your officers, but basic speech could accomplish that…”

“Don’t be a prat,” Greg says.  “Look, I’m happy for you two, but unless you want Donovan and Anderson to—”

“Wait,” John interjects, eyes wide, “you—you know?”

Greg scratches the side of his neck.  “Hickey.  And…” He chokes the words off, because mentioning Sherlock’s wince when he stood will not only traumatize them, but forever blemish their friendship.  _Yes, and I have a hunch that you buggered Sherlock last night.  Congratulations to the pair of you._ “…and you’re being, er.  Quite cheerful.”

“Oh.  Christ.” John tugs up his collar and glances at Sherlock.  “I thought we were doing well.”

But Sherlock’s got a look on his face that says he has a good idea of what Greg omitted – namely, a cross between fury and nausea.  His eyes flash to the other officers, a spark of spite tipping Greg off the instant before he opens his mouth.

“Attention, idiots!” he shouts.  “A genius is speaking!”

Heads turn.  Greg pinches the bridge of his nose.  “Fuck’s sake…”

Sherlock glances at John, who stares back, mouth open.  John deliberates for a beat, sighs, and nods. Sherlock continues.  “Though it’s none of your business, I know many of you have a vested interest in our sex lives because you have nothing better to do with your tedious existences.  Let me put an end to your suffering.  John and I,” he points, as if the officers are too dim to know who he means, “are in a committed romantic relationship.  It began last night, when John brought me to orgasm three times.”

Standing beside the corpse, Donovan wrinkles her nose.  “ _Ew!_ Shut it, freak!”

“Sherlock,” John hisses.

“Three times,” Greg marvels.  He claps John on the shoulder.  “Well done, mate.”

John looks faintly ill.  “Oh, God.”

“That being said,” Sherlock shouts, “everyone with designs on John’s person can bugger off.  That means you, Morley.”

Morley – a pretty brunette who had the misfortune to flirt with John – shrinks back, face scarlet.

“Don’t harass my officers,” Greg says.

“I won’t,” says Sherlock, “so long as they don’t harass _my_ boyfriend.  Since you’ve got more than two brain cells to rub together, I trust you can handle the rest without us.”

Greg sighs.  “Yes.”

“Right.  John and I are going home.”  Sherlock smolders at John – really, it’s the only verb Greg can fit to the look – and John licks his lips.  “We have better ways to spend our time.”

“Get out of here, please _,”_ Greg sighs, “before you cause a riot.”

It is only later, filling out paperwork at his desk, that Greg realizes Sherlock paid him a compliment.  Wrapped in scorn and tied with a ribbon of indecent lunacy, it was a compliment nonetheless. 

The pen halts mid-signature.  A compliment from Sherlock Holmes.  It’s almost worth Donovan’s written complaint.  Greg taps the papers into a neat stack and grins. 

 


	4. Cloistered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: How many tropes can I cram into 1.3k words?
> 
> Please note the rating change!

Sherlock is in the midst of an experiment, and the question motivating said experiment is this:  “How many times can I rub up against John Watson before he either A) pins me down and ravishes me, B) goes absolutely barking mad, or C) reacts in a yet un-hypothesized manner?”

That’s what John is beginning to think, anyway.  If pressed to answer that question, he would choose a mixture of A and B. Possibly simultaneously.  With a bit of C thrown in, assuming C can encompass “bursting into flame and ascending to a higher plane of existence after having roughly, thoroughly, and _repeatedly_ performing A.” 

It began innocuously enough.  Sherlock is, for all his pretense at glacial indifference, a warm, surprisingly demonstrative person.  John saw nothing amiss in the casual touches – hands on his shoulders, on his face, the feverish nearness as he untangled a tricky mystery, heedless of the scant inches between them.  John had yielded up his personal space to Sherlock a long time ago.  He doesn’t miss it, not really.

But this – this is different.  This is a hand on the small of his back as Sherlock guides him through the chaos of a crime scene, claiming John will tread on delicate evidence otherwise.  This is Sherlock crowding against John whilst undercover at a nightclub, lingering just long enough for John to feel the press of lean muscles under clinging clothes.  This is Sherlock leaning against him in the close darkness of a cab, boneless and warm, sighing with the contentment of a case well-solved. 

This is, quite frankly, becoming ridiculous.

The last strand of John’s fortitude snaps when, stealing through the shadowy cloister of a little Catholic church in Bristol one night, the creak of an opening door splinters the still air.  Sherlock stops in his inspection of the pews, motionless but for the flick of his thumb as he turns off the torchlight on his mobile phone.  Darkness swamps John’s vision.  He feels Sherlock’s hands on him. 

“Follow me,” Sherlock hisses.  “Don’t make a sound.”

John follows, sweat creeping across the back of his neck.  Footsteps echo off the vaulted ceiling as the intruder walks down the nave.  He has no idea he is not alone.  According to Sherlock’s deductions, _he_ is the new parish priest, arrived to the post after the sudden death of his predecessor.  Sherlock steers John down the aisle, impervious to the darkness, and ushers him into a stifling, dusty room.

No, John realizes after a confused moment, no—it isn’t a room at all.  It’s a confessional.  Memories of his childhood rise in his mind, memories of twiddling his thumbs as his knees grew sore, trying to drudge up a smidgen of guilt while he told the priest about skiving off school and stealing Harry’s girly magazines.  Harry was a complete arsehole when the spirit moved her, but she had a fantastic repertoire of magazines. 

The memories last for a few heartbeats before they vanish, usurped by the warm solidity of Sherlock’s body pressed against his.  John sucks in a breath.  Prays Sherlock can’t feel his heartbeat reverberating through his ribs. 

“Father Willis.”  Sherlock’s voice is a murmur, a warm breath in his ear.  John shivers.  “Come back to replace the votive candle.  He knows Father Mays lit one before he killed him.  His fingerprints are all over the wax.”

John tries to articulate a response, but all he can manage is a sort of strangled whimper.  Sherlock is pressed flush against him to hide them both behind the doorframe.  A thousand pinpoints of touch connect them, and for John, each is wired to a neuron lighting up like the bulbs on a Christmas tree. 

The short time it takes for Father Willis to cross the nave, rifle through the votive candles, and leave is an eternity of agony for John.  Sherlock moves closer, pushing John until he is flat against the wall of the confessional.  John’s knees buckle and he leans back to take what little support he can get.  Memories churn and intertwine with the present, insidious weeds grafting together vague guilt and blood-thumping theft and the illicit thrill of being trapped in close quarters with the object of his desire. Affection. 

Damn it all.  John knows when he’s well and truly fucked. 

He also knows himself well enough to recognize the signs of trouble.  He squirms, acutely aware of the shift of Sherlock’s body against his own.  Heat trickles down his spine to pool low in his gut.  Voice tight, he says, “He’s gone.  You can get off now, Sherlock.”

Sherlock moves only to tilt his head back, leaving their bodies flush together, which, really, is completely fucking unnecessary.  “Father Willis took the decoy candle.  Once I examine the third pew from the front, our business will be done.”

“Great,” John says through clenched teeth.  His thoughts have diverted down a truly sinful path – one lewd enough to make skiving off school and stealing girly magazines seem positively tame by comparison.  If Sherlock doesn’t move, John’s body will betray him in a way that requires no deductive skill to interpret.  He breathes in slowly, marshals his resolve.  “Getting comfortable, are you?”

Sherlock looks around the stall with apparent interest.  “An interesting design, these confessionals.  The traditional one, I believe.  Unless I’ve deleted them.”  He shrugs, the motion a languorous slide against John that can’t possibly be accidental.  “The priest is hidden away, but the penitent is so… exposed.  No doors to hide behind.  All their secret sins out for the entire world to know.”

John’s hands flutter to Sherlock’s sides without his permission.  The urge to touch itches through his fingers, to stroke and caress and keep. 

“Anyone could happen by,” Sherlock murmurs – close, so close.  “Anyone could hear… anyone could see…”

“Fuck this.” 

The words are shockingly loud in the stale air.  John is startled for an instant before he realizes they came from his mouth.  His hands are moving again of their own accord, fisting in the lapels of Sherlock’s coat.  Sherlock stares at him.  Unblinking, lips parted. 

Well.  In for a penny…

John pushes off the wall of the confessional, using his weight to barrel Sherlock against the grate on the other side.  He shoves in close, teeth bared, his cock a thickening line in his trousers.  All the experimental touches, all the years building to this: a handful of minutes’ fumbling in a godforsaken _confessional_.  Sherlock’s experiment is finally yielding results.  Options A and B are well underway, and if God is real, C will certainly follow. 

John shifts, planting his feet, and the jut of his cock presses into Sherlock’s thigh.  Sherlock gasps.

And then he _grins._

“A confessional,” he breathes.  “And here I thought you would feel too guilty for that.”

John leans closer, intent on intimidation.  The effect is undercut as the motion grinds his cock harder against Sherlock’s leg, sending a delicious shiver through his frame.  Voice breathy, he says, “You planned this?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.  “I’ve tried everything, John.  _Dozens_ of plans.  This was a last resort.”  His grin stretches impossibly wider.  “I didn’t account for your wickedness.”

John drags him down into a rough, filthy kiss.  As far as first kisses go, it’s not at the top of his list of fantasies – that place is reserved for Baker Street, soft voices and softer touches, hours to explore one another – but this isn’t a bad contender for second place. In fact, it’s pretty bloody amazing.

Sherlock parts his lips and John’s tongue delves inside.  He’s determined to be relentless and rough, determined not to yield to his gentler impulses.  Sherlock has been toying with him for God knows how long, and it’s high time John got a bit of his own back. 

They part, breathing hard and loud in the silence of the stall.  Sherlock blinks, dazed, the smugness thoroughly banished.  John smirks and trails a hand down his front.  Sherlock tenses. 

“Think I’m wicked, do you?” John says. 

Sherlock swallows audibly.  “Yes. You are—you’re an absolute devil, John Watson.”

John rubs, feeling Sherlock harden and thicken under his hand.  Slowly, tortuously, he undoes the flies of his trousers.  Through the cotton of his pants, Sherlock’s cock is a hot, hard weight in his hand. Sherlock gulps in a breath and lets his head fall back.  “Maybe. But you’re the one who’s been giving me hell, Sherlock Holmes.”

Perhaps it’s just as well they’re in a church, John thinks.  Because as he caresses and plunders with hand and mouth, Sherlock’s moans and pleas take a worshipful note.  Like a litany, or a prayer. 


	5. Free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ellipses (...) indicate a text in-progress.

Today 11:13 AM

We still on for tonight?

 

God I’m so bored. Nothing today but paperwork and head colds. 

 

Today 5:43 PM

I have to shower before we go out.  Patient vomited on my shoes.  I cleaned them but I can’t get rid of the smell.  Somehow think it got all the way into my hair.  Is that mad?

 

I assume you’re working on a case and not some ridiculous experiment…

 

John.  None of my experiments are ridiculous.  –SH

 

Ah, there you are. Was beginning to worry some criminal had strangled you.

 

Calling to confirm our reservation at Onima.  It’s at 8.

 

…

…

…

John, I’m so sorry.  –SH

 

Oh.

 

_Draft_

_How could you forget?  It’s only our first bloody_

You forgot?  That’s fine. 

 

I truly am sorry.  There’s been a break in the adult-onset SMA case.  –SH

 

I was testing knives of various sized serrated blades on spinal cords when I solved it.  Lestrade thinks the killer is about to bolt so we have to act quickly.  –SH

 

Please don’t be cross, John.  –SH

 

_ Draft  _

_I booked the reservation weeks ago, of course I’m_

It’s fine. Really.  We can go another time.

 

Maybe if I book now, I can get us in next year.

 

You’re angry.  –SH

I’m not. 

 

Your text was riddled with passive-aggression.  –SH

 

_ Draft  _

_What if it w_

I’m really not.  I was making a joke.  That’s all. 

 

I’m not mad.

 

…

…

Right.  –SH

…

 

I’ll pick up some takeaway after, shall I?  From the Korean barbeque. –SH

 

You like the bibimbap.  –SH

 

Okay.  Don’t hurry if you’re busy.  I’m knackered anyway so I might just go to bed when I get home.

 

Oh.  –SH

 

Yeah.  Pick me up something that won’t go off too soon, yeah? I can have it for lunch tomorrow.

 

…

…

Of course.  –SH

 

Great.  Thanks.

 

Today 7:55 PM

Heading back now.  –SH

 

You probably asleep, aren’t you. –SH

 

Definitely asleep.  Please do me the kindness of pretending you didn’t get these texts tomorrow, yes? –SH

 

I love you, John. –SH

 

-

Today 10:34 AM

Ennui setting in.  Let’s go for a walk in Hyde Park after your shift.  –SH

 

Can’t.  Miller’s out on sick leave and I’ve got to cover her patients.  Already have a mountain of paperwork.

 

Sorry.

 

No trouble.  Another time. –SH

 

Think your ennui can handle it?

 

I expect it will have to.  –SH

 

You left your modum namul in the fridge, by the way.  –SH

 

Shit.  Forgot. 

 

Now I’ll have to get some crap sandwich at the canteen again.  Wonderful.

 

Pity.  –SH

 

Today 1:33 PM

Thanks again, by the way. I was getting sick of cold egg salad.

 

They did look quite suspect.  –SH

 

They are.  Taste like sulfurous rubber.

 

That was actually quite sweet of you.

 

I am full of surprises.  –SH

 

You really are.  :)

 

It’s no Onima, but it will have to do.  –SH

 

_ Draft  _

_Yeah, well, I expect the food at Onima would be better than day-old_

Yeah. 

 

Forgot to ask.  Why Onima? Bit above our usual fare.  –SH

 

_ Draft  _

_Wait_

_ Draft  _

_You’re telling me you_

_ Draft  _

_Did you forget?  Did you seriously_

Got a patient coming in. Talk later.

 

…

 

Of course.  –SH

 

 

-

 

Today 4:30 PM

Are you free this evening? Thought we could go to Angelo’s or something.  Maybe go to a film after.  Make a night of it.

 

Can’t.  We’re having a night in.  –SH

 

Also, all the films on at the theatre are inane.  –SH

 

Are we?

 

And how would you know that? You thought Paddington would be rubbish and then it made you cry.

 

I didn’t cry.  –SH

 

My eyes misted.  Not crying. –SH

 

Also I had a terrible cold that day.  –SH

 

Right.  How silly of me. 

 

But why are we staying in?

 

-

 

“Sherl—oh.  Well.”

“John.”

“What… what’s all this?”

“It’s obviously dinner. Coconut lentil curry, to be precise.”

“And you… made it.”

“Don’t act so shocked. It’s only chopped up lentils and rice in a slow cooker.  Hardly advanced chemistry.”

“It’s not that, it’s just… I guess I don’t know why.”

“Why coconut lentil curry?”

“No, why—why’d you make this?  I guess. Is this some kind of gesture?”

“…Partially.”

“Partially.”

“It’s partially an apology because I cocked up and forgot and it’s partially a prelude, if you must know.”

“A prelude to what?”

“To whatever you like. I’ve got a good dry red standing by and your James Bond films out.  And Top Gun, if you prefer.”

“It’s Top Gear.”

“Top-Bloody-Whatever. The point is, I’m sorry and I would very much like to sit down with you and eat this curry and then go watch whatever stupid film strikes your fancy.  Then, if you’re amenable, I’d like to go to bed with you.  I believe that’s the custom.”

“The— the custom for what?”

“For a first anniversary. Or, in our case, a belated first anniversary.”

“Ah.”

“Indeed.”

“You forgot our first anniversary and think I’m still going to bed with you.”

“I… I had rather hoped you would, yes.  If you feel so inclined.”

“That is… bold of you.”

“You like me when I’m audacious.”

“Suppose I do.  Yeah.”

“I’m so sorry, John. You know I love you.”

“I do.  Come here.  This is still hard for me, you know?  Sometimes it’s still hard.  I want it to go away so I can be—so I can just move on, but sometimes—”

“I understand.  I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.  Let’s eat, yeah?  I’m famished.  Then we can watch Helga get eaten by piranhas.”

“Of all the Bond films, that one is perhaps the most ridiculous.”

“It’s your punishment for forgetting our anniversary.  Now, let’s eat.  This smells great.”

“I love you, John.”

“Happy belated anniversary, love.”


End file.
